


The Caretaker

by RavenWhitecastle



Series: The Sinner and the Saint [5]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 11:10:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14187609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenWhitecastle/pseuds/RavenWhitecastle
Summary: John didn't get sick. He'd been shot, stabbed, strangled, waterboarded, electrocuted, and tortured in a myriad of ways that would drive most men to madness, but he didn't get sick.So when he wakes up with a tickle in his throat, he chalks it up to a rough case. But it doesn't explain the ache in his bones and the claustrophobic pressure in his head.-Harold has to care for a bedridden John when he catches the flu from a civilian.





	The Caretaker

John didn’t get sick. It was a point of pride with him. He’d been shot, stabbed, strangled, waterboarded, electrocuted, and tortured in a myriad of ways that would drive most men to madness. But he’d never had a cold, the flu, a cough, or even the chicken pox. He just didn’t get sick.

So when he woke up with a tickle in the back of his throat, he chalked it up to a rough case. He’d done more shouting than normal, and it had taken its toll on his voice. It didn’t explain the ache in his bones or the claustrophobic pressure in his head, but he pushed through the fog and got dressed. They had a new number- time was of the essence. 

Still, he didn’t make it to the library in usual time. Harold shot him a look when he walked in. “You’re late.”

“Slept in,” John replied.

“I wasn’t aware you were capable of sleeping in,” Harold commented, “Didn’t do anything for appearances.”

John didn’t even have enough energy to spare to feel insulted. “Who’s the new number?”

Eyeing his partner dubiously, Harold taped up a picture of a sharp-looking young man. “Matthew Carlyle, an accountant in charge of some high profile client money.”

“Bet he’s got access to sensitive information,” John suggested, “He might be blackmailing one of this clients."

“Or he might have made one of those clients unhappy with the way he’s handled their money. Looks like he’s been shuffling funds around to hide some very large transactions.” When John didn’t say anything, Harold continued, “He’s currently at his office. According to his digital schedule, he’ll be headed to lunch soon.”

John nodded. “Intercept en route,” he murmured. Turning up the collars of his coat, he headed for the door.

“Be careful, Mr. Reese!” Harold called out after him.

John paused at the door. “Is Carlyle dangerous?”

Harold pursed his lips. “Not particularly. But… just take care.”

~

John was cold. It was March, there were patches of snow scattered along the streets, but most of the winter chill had melted away. And John was still freezing. He pulled his coat closer around him, buttoning it all the way up.

Carlyle was still in his office, which John could see from the street. He rubbed his arms with his hands, trying to warm up. The damp sweat wasn’t doing him any favors. Shivering, he tried to focus on the movement in Carlyle’s window.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold said, coming through over his earpiece, “I have some intel on Mr. Carlyle’s luncheon.”

John inhaled to reply, but a rattling cough took him off guard. When he recovered, he replied, “Good.”

“Are you all right, Mr. Reese?”

“Fine,” he mumbled, “Just a bruised rib or two. What do you have?”

Harold swallowed his skepticism. “Mr. Carlyle is meeting with a client, Clint Flaherty. The client has a history of activity with the mob, but nothing that the NYPD can pin on him.”

“Carlyle’s involved with the Irish mob?”

“At the very least, he’s handling the Irish mob’s money.”

John coughed a few more times. “Carlyle probably mishandled it, and Flaherty… ahem… Flaherty’s coming to collect.”

“Possibly. I suggest you keep a careful eye on-”

John couldn’t suppress the next coughing fit. It hurt, and left him a little winded.

“Mr. Reese, are you sure you’re all right? I can ask Detective Fusco to come help if-”

“I’m fine.” Carlyle appeared out of the rotating doors. “He’s on the move.” John cut Harold off again by hanging up, and he started down the street after Carlyle. The accountant hailed a cab, and Reese got on his bike to tail him. He swallowed a complaint about the wind chill and raced off after the taxi.

He only made it a couple blocks before the pounding in his head became too great. With a groan, he pulled over and stumbled off his bike. He collapsed on a bench nearby and gripped his head in his hands. “Finch,” he gasped.

His boss came through moments later. “John? What happened?”

“Head,” John groaned, “... hurts. Something’s wrong.”

“Stay where you are,” Harold replied, “I’m coming to get you.”

“Ll’lose Carlyle,” John managed.

“I’ll call for reinforcements, just stay put.”

John had no more excuses, and no more fire left to argue with. All he could manage was leaning against the cool brick wall behind him, coughing occasionally.

~

Back in a bed in a room at their library, Harold waited patiently for the thermometer to beep while he took John’s pulse, keeping his eye on his watch. When a minute had passed, he put John’s hand down. His heart rate was in the nineties, unusually high for a man with John’s capabilities.

A few seconds later, the thermometer beeped at him. Harold removed it and glanced at the output. “Just as I suspected,” he sighed, “Fever, likely the flu.”

“That’s impossible,” John protested, “I don’t-”

Even as he argued, he was interrupted by a coughing fit. It pained Harold to listen to.

“I don’t get sick,” John finished.

“Maybe you didn’t used to, but there’s a first time for everything. You’ve been in contact with more civilians than you ever were at the CIA. It’s likely you picked it up while saving one of them.”

John wanted to quip that maybe they shouldn’t have bothered saving them if they were going to feel as poorly as he did. Instead, he just pointed out, “The numbers don’t stop coming, Finch. We don’t get days off.”

Harold sighed again. “Be that as it may, you’re in no way fit to work a case. You need rest. Overexertion will only result in your condition getting worse, which at this juncture is a risk we can’t afford to take.” Rummaging around in his old medkit, he added, “I’ll handcuff you to the bed if I have to.”

“Is that a promise?”

Harold straightened. John blinked at him, smirking mischievously. Harold felt the color rising to his cheeks. John was clearly delirious.

Harold returned to the medkit, producing a handful of pill bottles. “The only cure for maladies like this one is rest, time, and lots of fluids. At the very least, I can give you that and treat most of the symptoms.” He snapped the case shut and lifted it off the bedside table. “I’ve got painkillers and throat lozenges, but I’ll need to fetch some items from the bodega downstairs. I’ll fetch you some water before I go. Anything particular I should look for, John?”

John sighed. “What could I possibly need that we don’t already have,” he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Harold pursed his lips. “Cold medicine, for starters. But I was thinking more along the vein of… of comfort food.” John opened one bleary eye to stare at Harold. “Some people find that certain foods, despite having no real health benefits, make them feel better anyway.”

John hadn’t thought about comfort for quite some time. At least, not in a personal capacity. There was the comfort of not bleeding all over the place, or of having something with which to defend himself, but that had less to do with comfort and more to do with professionalism.

Finally, he murmured, “There’s an American grill bar a block over that makes sloppy joes. Real ones, with ground beef instead of pulled pork.” He closed his eye again. “If it’s not too far out of your way.”

Harold smiled a little. Still thinking of his partner’s convenience ahead of his own, as usual. “Not at all, John,” he replied, “Not at all.”

~

John ate half his sloppy joe before giving up. His throat hurt, and coughing violently with his mouth full was just disaster waiting to happen. Harold coaxed some medicine into him before he rolled over and started drifting.

In between the stages of awakeness and sleep, his thoughts seemed pass like shadows through the fog. The fever had muddled his brain, but he remembered Carlyle. Where was he? Wasn’t John supposed to be watching him? John was supposed to be somewhere, but instead he was home. Not home, but probably the closest think he had to it. His apartment was more like base camp. He always liked walking into the library. The smell of old books and Harold’s tea. Where was Harold? He’d been here a minute ago. Or had it been hours? He didn’t really have a sense of time. He hated the feeling. Not just the timelessness, but feeling helpless. He couldn’t stand it. He wanted to shoot something. It was the way he’d felt after he’d lost Jessica. He missed Jessica. He missed Harold.

“John?” Harold said, somewhere to his left, “Are you all right?”

John opened his eyes, wincing against the light. Harold was sitting next to the bed holding a book.

John had several questions. Had he said any of that out loud in his sleep? Or rather, semi-consciousness. What was Harold doing there? How much time had passed? He opened his mouth to ask, but his throat felt raw, and he started coughing again.

Harold hurriedly set aside his book, and helped John sit up. He held up a glass of water for John to drink once the coughing had subsided, rubbing his back soothingly. When John pulled away, Harold lowered him back onto the pillows.

“How long have you been sitting there?” John asked. His voice sounded wrong. It was even more gravelly than normal, and he sounded congested and stuffy.

Harold settled back in his seat. “Long enough to read a couple chapters of _The Count of Monte Cristo_.” He paused for a moment. “How do you feel?”

“On a scale of one to being shot?”

Harold winced. “If you must.”

“Like death warmed over.”

Harold sighed in sympathy. “That is typically what the flu like. Welcome to the human race.”

John started, suddenly remembering something. “Carlyle,” he gasped, sitting up again “The mob, is he-”

Harold stood and gently pushed John back to the pillows. “Mr. Carlyle is fine. I sent Detective Fusco in your place, he managed to catch Flaherty mid-attack, he’s been brought up on attempted murder charges.”

John sighed. “That’s my job,” he groaned, “Why is Fusco doing my job…”

Harold grew more concerned. “You were talking in your sleep.”

John swallowed, albeit painfully. “Sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” Only half thinking, Harold reached out and brushed John’s hair off his forehead. “You’re fever’s still pretty high,” he murmured, relatively sure John wasn’t listening. His eyes had fluttered shut again. Pursing his lips, Harold limped off to get water and a towel to cool off John’s face.

When he returned, John was muttering again, something that sounded like an apology. Harold sat down and shushed him, brushing his hair away again. “Hush, John, you’re safe.” He set about cooling John’s face with the damp cloth, muttering comforts through all his careful ministrations. “I’m here.”

John came to some time later, his skin looking a slightly healthier shade of pink. He coughed quietly before commenting, “Never pegged you for the nursing type, Finch.”

Harold pursed his lips again. “You know,” he started, “Maybe if you had told me when you arrived this morning that you weren’t feeling well, you wouldn’t be in such pitiful condition.”

John smirked at Harold’s façade of bitterness. “I’ve worked through worse,” he replied. “I’ve been shot more than a few times and still managed.”

“Which is an argument for another day when you’re feeling better. You’re far from off the hook for last time, you know.”

Last time had been when he’d gone after Alonzo Quinn, and he’d nearly bled out on the floor of the politician’s safehouse. Harold had never quite forgiven him, but of course, John had never actually apologized.

“Sorry,” he tried. Now was as good a time as any.

Harold looked up from fiddling with his medical supplies, startled. John’s shocking blue eyes were more focused now, studying Harold intently, awaiting his reply. He looked… sincere.

Clearing his throat, Harold smiled softly. “Like I said,” he replied, “a conversation for another time. But… I am glad you’re all right.” He gestured vaguely at John huddled on the bed and added, “Relatively speaking.”

John chuckled before a coughing fit cut him off. Harold helped him drink a few more sips of water before adjusting the pillows. “Get some rest, Mr. Reese.”

John shifted, unable to escape the ache. Finally, he closed his eyes and murmured, “Read to me.”

Harold blinked. “Excuse me?”

John raised a clammy hand and pointed. “From your book. _Monte Cristo_. It might be boring enough to put me to sleep.”

Harold resisted the urge to pick up the book and smack John with it. “Have some respect for the classics,” he huffed.

John coughed again. “Sorry. I meant I need something to focus on.” He swallowed again. “Please.”

It caught Harold off guard, hearing that word from John. He’d always viewed his partner as strong, silent, and stubborn to a fault, fending for himself whatever the cost. Harold had never heard him beg in all their time together.

When he saw John’s eyes had opened again, he nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He almost dropped the book in his rush to open it. “From the beginning?” John shook his head. “Wherever is fine. Just read.”

Harold nodded, turning to his bookmark somewhere in the middle of chapter three. He cleared his throat and glanced at John. John was still watching him, bright blue eyes half closed, lips slightly parted, breathing ragged. Adjusting his glasses, Harold started reading.

“Our readers will follow us along the only street of this little village, and enter with us one of the houses, which is sunburned to the beautiful dead-leaf color peculiar to the buildings of the country, and within coated with whitewash, like a Spanish posada.”

As Harold read from the novel, John’s eyes fluttered shut again. His breathing evened out, but Harold still kept reading. John fell asleep listening to Harold droning on, and with the soft lull of Harold’ voice, John didn’t feel quite so helpless anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> blegh i can't write endingsssss  
> The relationship here is more implied, unfortunately, but I have big plans for these two.


End file.
